The Guild Hall was customarily full.

  The din of laughter, clinking mugs, and raised voices filled the air. Rowdy adventurers occupied most of the tables, their weapons leaning against the walls or resting within easy reach.

  Swords and spears were the most common, but Rowan saw more than a few stranger choices. His eyes caught a pair of intricately braided whips coiled neatly beside a table, a hefty warhammer leaning against it, more suited to smashing boulders than monsters. Still, the mountain of a man beside it looked more than capable of wielding it.

  The aroma of roasted meat and spiced ale mingled with the faint tang of sweat and steel. Serving staff weaved deftly between tables, balancing trays of food and drink.

  A few adventurers were already deep in their cups, their laughter booming above the general noise, while others pored over quest boards or bartered loudly amongst themselves.

  Rowan and Nemir stepped inside.

  “Are we grabbing a drink?” Nemir asked, looking around for a free table.

  Rowan liked that idea. In fact, he liked it a lot. After the day they had, something strong and stiff sounded perfect.

  “Let’s deal with the quest first,” he said, nodding towards the counter where a Guild attendant sat. “I’d rather get it out of the way. Then we can go and have one.”

  “Or two,” Nemir smirked, bumping him with his elbow.

  Rowan chuckled. “Or two.”

  There were three Guild attendants working at this hour, with two of them occupied by other groups. They made their way to a stern-looking woman sitting behind a massive slab of oak, her brown hair tied into a no-nonsense braid. She was sorting through a stack of papers, her quill moving with skilled precision.

  Her sharp eyes flicked up as they approached, taking in their roughed-up armor and mud-stained boots.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, casually setting her papers aside.

  Nemir rummaged through his coat, pulling out the flier they took off the quest board earlier today, placing it in front of her. “We’ve completed this quest,” he said. “The Crimson Grove.”

  The attendant nodded, taking the piece of paper and quickly reading through it. “Proof?”

  “About that,” Rowan said, dropping the pouch of goblin fangs on the table with a soft thud. “The quest was a bit wrong about the number of monsters. We’d like to have it re-evaluated.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, untying the string and looking inside.

  “Hmm,” she muttered, pouring the contents of the bag onto a tray and separating them into smaller piles. “Thirty-eight… forty-two… forty-four.”

  When she was done, she looked back up at them, a small smile on her face. “A bit, he says,” she chuckled. “It seems your team had quite the day. Thirty-five lesser goblins, Bronze-rank, Nine normal goblins, Iron-rank, and a hobgoblin to boot.”

  With the fangs they gave to Killian, that was a bit off, but this next part would make up for it.

  Rowan returned her smile. “There’s one more thing.”

  He looked around, making sure no one was watching before pulling out the shaman’s Core. A piece of cloth covered it, concealing the faint, orange light that filled it.

  Rowan guessed there was less than a tenth of the shaman's Earth mana left inside, and around a quarter of the Wind mana. It wasn’t anything special as far as Core’s went, but it was one nonetheless.

  The attendant slowly unfurled the cloth, her eyes widening at the sight. She quickly covered it up, glancing at Rowan with an appraising gaze. “A shaman,” she said slowly. “And a hobgoblin.”

  She closed her eyes, letting out a long, drawn-out sigh. “Well, shit.”

  Rowan barely suppressed a laugh. “I’m guessing you’ll up the quest to Silver?”

  “Yeah, yeah, of course,” she muttered absentmindedly. “It would have been Silver III with just the hobgoblin, but with a shaman thrown in the mix, I think Silver V is more appropriate.”

  Opening a drawer, the attendant cleaned up her table, putting away the goblin fangs. She carefully picked up the Core, placing it next to them before closing it back up. The faint glow of enchantments flared to life as it locked.

  She took a moment, doing calculations in her head. “Thirty gold for the lesser goblins, fifty for the Iron-ranks, and two-fifty for the hobgoblin.”

  That seems fair, Rowan thought.

  “What about the Core?” he asked.

  “Someone will need to appraise it, but it shouldn’t go below five hundred. Depending on how intact it is, you might get up to a thousand.”

  Rowan glanced at Nemir. “A thousand gold for a day's work,” he smiled. “Not bad.”

  He chuckled. “The rest of the team is going to be thrilled.”

  “And you’re looking at another five hundred from the quest reward,” the attendant pointed out, throwing away the old flier and quickly writing out a new one. This time with the correct information.

  After skimming it over, she nodded to herself, stamped it, and placed it in another drawer."

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  “Would you like it deposited into your party’s account, or to withdraw it?”

  “Could you transfer fifty of that over to the Steel Fist? A Silver-rank by the name of Killian is the leader,” he asked. “And keeping it in the account is fine.”

  They made a deal, and just because Rowan didn’t like it didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it.

  The attendant arched an eyebrow, glancing at him with a knowing expression. “Just fifty?” she asked.

  “Yes, just fifty.” Rowan smiled.

  She stood up and moved to the back wall, pulling out folders filled with what Rowan assumed were party compositions, looking for Killian’s team.

  “That’s a good haul,” Nemir said, a satisfied expression on his face. “It should come out to three hundred gold per person. More than enough for everyone to buy the equipment they need.”

  “What about you?” Rowan asked.

  “My gear is adequate for now. I’m probably going to buy a skill manual instead.”

  He nodded. “Pushing something to Proficient?”

  “Actually, I was thinking of trying to advance [Crescent Strike].”

  Rowan’s eyes widened a fraction. “Really? Over [Greatsword Mastery]?”

  It was surprising that Nemir was trying to advance a skill to Expert at such a low level. Most warriors got their first one well on their way to Gold, at Silver III or above. Going for it at Iron V was an impressive feat.

  “I won’t need a manual for that one,” he said, a cocky expression on his face.

  Rowan laughed. “That’s the spirit.”

  “And you?” the swordsman asked, casually leaning against the table. “What does a mage spend his gold on?”

  “Plenty of things,” Rowan shrugged, watching the attendant as she rummaged through her files. “Spells are expensive, and potions don’t come cheap either.”

  What he said was definitely true. Acquiring spells was a problem all mages faced. It was the reason most ended up in the employ of the various noble houses. Knowledge was a resource, and gaining it wasn't always simple.

  But that didn’t apply to him.

  The Vault held tomes for every tier one affinity, mostly Whispers and Murmurs, but there was a single Chant-level spell for each.

  Just one of those alone was worth thousands of gold—a number most people born outside the nobility didn’t have access to.

  And that’s just inside the first chamber, he thought. I’m sure Ode’s and Epic’s are deeper in. I just need to get strong enough to get them.

  “Potions, yes,” Nemir said, throwing a knowing glance toward his ring. “Would you be willing to sell a few? Rare potions are hard to come by out here.”

  He waved him off. “I’ll just give everyone a few. Honestly, I should have done that already.”

  Nemir’s eyes widened. “Are you sure? That’s a… substantial gift.”

  It really wasn’t, but explaining that would just lead to more questions, ones Rowan still didn’t feel like addressing.

  “A shorter healing cooldown means less downtime. Which means more quests,” he shrugged. “A few potions seems like a small price to pay for that.”

  Nemir frowned. “We’d need to compensate you for them. It just wouldn’t feel right not giving anything in return. Maybe we can revisit how we distribute quest rewards?” he sighed. “You’re already taking a much smaller cut than you could be getting. As a mage, you could go to any team and ask for half, and they’d jump over one another for an opportunity to accept.”

  Rowan had an urge to roll his eyes but decided against it. Pride was a prickly thing, and simply dismissing it wouldn’t solve the underlying issue.

  “Here’s the thing,” he said, clasping the burly swordsman on the shoulder. “We’re a team, right?”

  Nemir nodded. “Yes, but that doesn't—”

  Rowan stopped him, raising a hand. “That’s all there is to it. My goal is to get stronger, the same as yours. Helping you helps me. And besides, I’m not going to lose sleep over a few healing potions, no matter their rarity. Trust me.”

  I could give everyone in this city a dozen of them and I wouldn’t even feel it, he thought, keeping the specifics to himself.

  The attendant returned a few moments later, a file in her hand. “It’s done. Your deposit will reflect the updated amount shortly,” she said. Her stern expression softened slightly. “And good work out there. Encountering a hobgoblin would be too much for most Iron-ranked teams, let alone a shaman. Keep it up.”

  Nemir nodded, accepting the compliment with a small smile. “There was one more thing,” he said, pulling out the piece of cloth with the goblin tribe’s sigil sewn into it. “We think this may be the tribe moving into the region.”

  The attendant frowned as she took the cloth. “Red Fangs,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Would one of you be willing to speak to someone about what you encountered? Any information you have might prove useful.”

  “Go ahead and grab us a table,” Nemir said, accepting the task. “I’ll speak with them. Shouldn’t take long.”

  Rowan let out a sigh of relief.

  Recounting the fight was the last thing he wanted to do right now.

  “Be quick about it,” he said with a grin, clapping Nemir on the shoulder. “I’ll make sure there’s a drink waiting for you when you get back.”

  Rowan left Nemir to his task and went to find a table. It took longer than he would have liked. The Guild Hall buzzed with activity, adventurers either reveling in their wins or trying to forget their losses.

  Eventually, he spotted one tucked into a quiet corner and made his way over.

  A server appeared almost as soon as Rowan sat down, balancing a tray filled with empty mugs and half-eaten plates. “What’ll it be?” he asked.

  “Two ales, and something warm to eat,” Rowan replied, flipping him a silver coin.

  He gave him a quick nod, disappearing into the bustling crowd.

  .

  .

  .

  Nemir returned just as the server arrived with their drinks, setting the mugs down with practiced ease.

  He sank into the seat opposite Rowan, his expression thoughtful but not tense.

  “They’re taking it seriously,” Nemir said, lifting his mug with a faint smile. “To surviving another day.”

  Rowan raised his own in reply, the faint clink of their mugs cutting through the din. “I’ll drink to that.”

  They drank deeply, the bitter taste lingering as it warmed them from within.

  “Did they say anything new?” Rowan asked, leaning back in his chair.

  Nemir nodded. “They’ve been keeping tabs on the Red Fangs for a while. We’re the first team to bring in proof, but they were on the short list of candidates for what tribe it might have been,” he sighed. “Knowing doesn't change all that much. We’re still in for a Monster Surge.”

  Nemir’s lips thinned. “And it isn’t just here. The Guild’s been noticing similar patterns across the kingdom. They’re stretched thin already. If this keeps escalating, cities like Litwick are going to be in serious trouble.”

  Rowan mulled that over in silence, sipping his drink.

  A Monster Surge wasn’t a problem they could deal with. In fact, it wasn’t a problem anyone could deal with. The Wilds were massive, and when something managed to get through the Walls, it caused a chain reaction.

  “Not much we can do besides get stronger,” he said.

  Nemir grunted in agreement, setting his mug down. “Which brings us to the next topic—Zoe.”

  Rowan smirked. “I was wondering when you’d bring her up.”

  “What do you think of her?” he asked, his brows furrowed in thought.

  He didn’t have to think long about his answer. “She’d be a massive boon to the team,” he said, resting his elbows on the table. “Having a healer would open up a lot of opportunities for us. Better quests, tougher opponents, deeper expeditions into the Wilds. And from what little we’ve seen, she seems competent.”

  Nemir nodded. “I agree. But there’s a risk too. We don’t know her well. And healers… well, you know how they can get.”

  “She called me incompetent,” Rowan pointed out. “That was rude and uncalled for.”

  Nemir laughed. “I don’t think she called you incompetent. She just asked you if you were.”

  “That might be even worse,” Rowan grumbled.

  “I’m sure you’ll forgive her after she saves your life a few dozen times,” Nemir said, taking a sip of his drink. “She’ll definitely make us stronger. If we’re careful and set the right expectations, I think she’ll fit right in. Besides,” he added with a wry smile. “Sil and Omi already seem to like her. That’s half the battle right there.”

  Rowan chuckled, nodding. “True enough. And Annie’s practical. She’ll come around once she weighs the benefits.”

  They drank again, letting the conversation drift to lighter topics. The tension from the day’s events finally started to ebb, leaving a sense of comfortable camaraderie in its place.

  .

  .

  .

  The walk back to the house was quiet, the streets of Litwick dimly lit by flickering lanterns. Most shops were closed for the night, the people spending their evenings either at home or in one of the many taverns the city had.

  Rowan let his mind drift as he approached the modest estate he was renting. He paused at the door, glancing up at the stars.

  Zoe might be just what we need, he thought. A healer would make us stronger—enough to face bigger threats, take on higher-ranked quests. Allow us to push ourselves to the limit.

  But strength didn’t come cheap.

  Rowan stayed in the entryway, leaning against the wall. He closed his eyes, focusing on the faint hum of his Core.

  It’s time, he thought. I’ve been putting it off long enough.

  The soft red glow of his Core felt like a promise—and a challenge. Advancing to Orange would be the first real step Rowan took to achieving his goals. It was the key to his survival. To strength. To the answers he was chasing.

  No stopping until I’m done, he resolved.

  Tomorrow, the real work began.